


Perhaps there is only abyss

by firebrands



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Drunkenness, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:33:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24365866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firebrands/pseuds/firebrands
Summary: “What’s wrong?” He asks, tone urgent, as if something’s going to come out of the walls and attack them. Frankly, that seems more ideal as compared to crying in front of Fenris, but Varric’s life has been nothing but a series of moments that were not ideal.two weeks after hawke is left in the fade, varric returns to kirkwall to pay a visit to an old friend.
Relationships: Fenris/Male Hawke
Comments: 9
Kudos: 39





	Perhaps there is only abyss

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [the canticle of trials](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Chant_of_Light_verses#Canticle_of_Trials), which also includes THIS DOOZY:  
>  _And though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing_  
>  can break me except Your absence.

Two weeks after the Varric’s world was upended (and how often could that happen to someone, really, before they broke?), he heads out of Skyhold and back home.

He tells the Inquisitor it’s for business, but he knows better than to think he’d fooled her. But he can’t bear to add this additional weight onto her mountain of burdens—she was faced with an impossible choice. And if Varric knew Hawke, well. He likely made the decision for her, anyway.

Still, it’s not like knowing that it was Hawke’s choice to stay in the Fade—no. That’s not right, he’s not just _in the Fade_ , he’s dead, and the thought hits Varric like a punch in the gut that he needs to take a moment to reorient himself.

Hawke is dead. He’s dead. For real, now, not just Varric making things up to keep him safe. No, no keeping him safe anymore.

Varric’s halfway down the steps of the Viscount’s Keep, but he has to move to the side and grasp the balustrade carved into the stone. It grounds him, helps him hold the tears back.

* * *

He checks the Hawke Estate first. Unsurprisingly empty. Varric stands by the fireplace that hasn’t been lit in months, and in a wild moment of rationality, he thinks that someone should get around to renaming this place.

He sets off and checks the Hanged Man, on the off chance that drowning sorrows in a place that was too noisy to allow for thought was the method of mourning. Or, that Isabela had gotten his letter and come to visit, to commiserate, and grieve in her own way. It’s empty, too, of the usual suspects—at least, the usual suspects that Varric once knew. It hurts, even after all this time, to think of all the nights they’d spent here, together. How insufferable Hawke’s ragtag crew of miscreants were, at the start. And as the battles piled on, eventually, they’d learned to be friends.

Varric doesn’t want to go down that path of nostalgia; not tonight. He has more important things to do.

He makes his way back to Hightown, and he figures that he’s doing this all out of order because he’s trying to delay the inevitable, but now he’s standing outside Fenris’ mansion and it’s time.

“Hey, broody, open up,” Varric says. He tries to keep his voice light, but it cracks at the nickname, and he takes a moment to rest his head against the door, trying to calm himself. “It’s just me.”

The door stays closed, but when Varric tries the knob, it gives.

He scoffs with a quick flash of irritation. _Of course_.

The house is even more of a mess (and he hadn’t thought that possible) than it was, the last time he was here. He can’t even remember the last time he was here. He feels a chill as he walks across the entrance hall, remembering the shades they had to fight through, after all the assassins. Maker, the shit he’s been through.

The door to Fenris’ bedroom is open, and the heat from the fireplace is enough to let Varric know that despite the sepulchral atmosphere, someone in this godforsaken mansion was alive.

Varric stands at the precipice of the door, but can’t bring himself to say anything when he finally sees Fenris.

Fenris, legs stretched out in front of him, leaning against the bed, two empty bottles of wine lying beside him. His eyes are red-rimmed and glassy. He doesn’t even register that Varric is there.

“Hey,” Varric says.

Fenris’ gaze shifts to him slowly—confirming Varric’s theory on how drunk Fenris was.

“You,” Fenris says, and Varric figures that he means for it to have more bite to it.

“Anything left for me? Or have you drunk it all?”

Fenris looks away, hangs his head, then shrugs.

Varric sits beside Fenris, stretches out his legs and lets his feet get warmed by the fire.

“Don’t,” Fenris says, just as Varric opens his mouth.

“Okay,” Varris says.

It’s strange to see Fenris like this. Not the drunk part—he’d seen that often enough, before—but wearing clothes, not armor. Even stranger to think that Hawke had probably helped him pick out these loose pants, the soft-looking shirt.

They’re silent for what feels like hours. Varric had gotten up in the middle of it to try and scrounge around, and let out a relieved sigh when he found an unopened bottle of Mackay's Epic Single Malt. He’d sent a few bottles to Hawke, back when the Inquisitor had found a stash. Varric doesn’t want to think of how he and Fenris had probably drank together, or how Fenris must’ve gone through the Estate, collecting things that were of use. He doesn’t want to think of how often Fenris must have done that—pick up the pieces of his life, small enough to fit a backpack, and move on, and on, and on, until one day, he didn’t have to be so frugal with his belongings.

Until one day, he had to be, once more.

They drank in silence, Fenris slouching further and further until he’s almost at Varric’s height when seated. Varric’s drunk. Thank the Maker he’s drunk, because after what was probably actual hours of silence, Fenris finally chooses to speak.

“I told him,” Fenris says, and stops to clear his throat. His voice was rough from disuse. “I told him not to go.”

Varric snorts. “I did too.”

“Never did listen,” Fenris slurs. “Bastard.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Varric says, tipping the bottle into his mouth and passing it to Fenris.

Fenris sets the bottle down between them, and it wobbles precariously before Varric holds it upright.

They’re silent again.

“Nothing to live for, now,” Fenris says, and it’s a lot, coming from him, but somehow he sounds glib about it.

Varric turns and stares at him.

“What,” Fenris says, deadpan.

Varric does not want to say, _I guess his sarcasm rubbed off on you_ , because it’s too much, it’s all still too much, it will never stop being too much to believe.

Fenris swears under his breath, then slinks down further onto the floor until he’s lying down.

Varric reaches out and tentatively pats Fenris’ shoulder.

Then, he watches, transfixed, as a single tear rolls down Fenris cheek.

“Should’ve gone with him,” Fenris whispers, and Varric knows, he _knows_ it’s the alcohol loosening Fenris’ jaw, cracking it open to give voice to all his thoughts. All he can do is listen, and he keeps his hand on Fenris’ shoulder. He likes to think it gives him some comfort.

“Your Inquisitor,” Fenris says, and he says _Inquisitor_ like it’s a slur—for a brief moment, Varric has to agree. “Is she worth it?”

Varric sighs.

“Hawke thought so,” he says, because he knows, too, that no matter how close he and Fenris were (which, honestly, wasn’t a lot) his opinion would never hold water.

Fenris scoffs. “Who cares. He’s dead.” Then, impossibly, he asks, “do you think she’s worth it?”

Varric thinks of Haven. Thinks of Redcliffe, of the Frostback, of the songs sung in the valley amidst the bitter cold, of a woman who’d come back from certain death.

Then he thinks of Kirkwall, the Wounded Coast, the Vinmark Mountains and the being who fashioned himself into a god.

He thinks of the Deep Roads, and of Lowtown on fire. He thinks of the man they’re grieving. He thinks of the woman who caused their grief.

“Yes,” Varric says, voice barely above a whisper. “Yes.”

Fenris frowns, and Varric glances down at Fenris’ fists when the tattoos flash blue. But they fade just as quickly, and Fenris raises his hand to cover his eyes.

“Hawke was worth it,” Fenris says, and Varric bites down on his lip and nods, because he can’t speak. It’s a rare moment, and Fenris seems to recognize this—he lifts his hand away and pushes himself up to rest on his elbows.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, tone urgent, as if something’s going to come out of the walls and attack them. Frankly, that seems more ideal as compared to crying in front of Fenris, but Varric’s life has been nothing but a series of moments that were not ideal.

Varric laughs, high and thready, half-hysterical. “Everything, broody,” he says. “Everything’s fucking wrong.”

Fenris huffs out a breath, a small smile on his lips. “You’re right,” he says, lying back down on the floor.

Varric’s trying very valiantly to pull himself together that he almost doesn’t hear it when Fenris says, “I told Hawke, before he left. I said that I was tired of everything changing.”

Varric looks down at Fenris.

Fenris keeps his gaze on the ceiling. There’s a sad smile on his lips, and if Varric weren’t so completely wrecked, he would’ve said something about how it looked alien on his face.

“He told me that some things would stay the same.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr [@blackemporiums](https://blackemporiums.tumblr.com/) and on twitter @firebrandss :)


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